


Connections

by Sermna



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Non-Sburb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:44:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sermna/pseuds/Sermna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of the life and deaths of twelve trolls who never played a game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Connections

**Author's Note:**

> There will be three installments- four trolls each.

Limp, soured boxes reside in corners long buried in repeated volleys of trash. Blearily, gnats forage, fly, and ultimately die. Honey-stickied packaging cling to cans of mold-coated syrups, lost monuments to past nights of gaming- just as the jackets and discarded pants recall a past that did not include seclusion. New dehydrated grubloaf resides, open to air, next to the keyboard where thin hands tap out rhythms of code, ever increasing, white on black on red.

Another client demands quick work, and you are quite willing to comply.

Nearby, wiring flashes red, then blue, as your mind soothes them into straight pulsing lines. Information fries through them, feeding on the proteins and brainwaves of grubs nestled neatly in cubicles, mind slaves that will die and be quickly replaced. Bees, as efficient as you, buzz in the empty space above your bed and carry out their work.

Your name is Sollux Captor. You have lived almost nine sweeps, and in that time you have surpassed the greatest, though admittedly military-oriented, minds of your race.

You are prepared to die.

___  
  
There is only one thing you feel anymore, and that is pain. Thick and pulsing, it races through you like a poor imitation of your old red blood. Where does pain rank on the hemospectrum? High enough to make others bow before you- and they do. You shatter patellar bones, rip through the spongy minds of the defiant. You shine rainbow, and anymore you are known only as the Demoness. Whispers link you to the Handmaid, but whispers are easily choked and blown away like smoke. Fuschia drips from fingers and an heiress falls.

Two moons are your witness, great mind-controlled eyes to match your own, as you ghost through long halls of coral drilled walls. Water pours over you.

You are Aradia Megido.

You wish you were alive.

___

Thick metal walls encase a small respite block, as utilitarian as it is lonely. A small dip in the floor holds shallow, thin sopor that fails to pacify the mind, leaving you susceptible to long stretches of fuzzed hostility.  Trolls pass your door and they growl at each other the same warnings you do- _I am dangerous. Do not get close_. Fights ring in corners and end in teal-stained rags quickly and quietly thrown into space, serving as monuments to the ever ascending ranks of legislacerators that scowl and smile and kill. The scent of lemon, watchful eyes, encase you.

You are Terezi Pyrope.

A thin knocking echoes, and a hulking example of your race informs you that they are ready for you. Good- you snap your cane across your shins and give him your very best smile, the one that reminds everyone you once chewed someone’s throat out. He does not look impressed, but that is fine. You need only impress the test givers that will decide your future. Down the hallway, a coin is dropped and lands on heads.

___

Blue smears your hands, the blue of the ocean, the blue that once swallowed your lusus whole. You harvest the horns, and then the eyes, and you laugh at them because _isn’t it funny, isn’t funny my motherfucking friend_ , and you paint the walls royal. Your hair tickles your back like spiders, which is _SO VERY MOTHERFUCKING FITTING, BROTHER_ that you laugh again. Burning lines cross your face like reminders, trophies that sing for themselves. _Where are you_ , they say, _SHOW ME YOUR MOTHERFUCKING FACE_ , but no one answers so you break the bones and spill more cerulean.

Nine sweeps have passed in burning realization, and the hole in your brain exists once again.

Where sopor dulled you, blood crazes you, and you hate _hate HATE_ it.

You are Gamzee Makara, tool of the Empress and slave to your drug.


End file.
